Page 120 of Better Love Next Time
“He said we got too much timber. That we should be sellin’ it to other yards. That stiff-rump thinks small.”
The timber Julian had purchased in London had been stacked for optimal air flow in two outbuildings floor to ceiling and had started the lengthy process of seasoning. Time would tell if his gamble paid off. Without commissions, the wood was worth market price and the labor and storage costs wasted.
“Turner’s merely cautious,” Julian said.
“Never thought I’d bless the day I see Madame at her desk in her blacks and ink on her fingers.”
Never thought? Julian peered sideways at Sam’s backhanded compliment.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Madame’s a good woman, only?—”
“Stop while you’re ahead.”
The first day they opened the yard, Julian had sensed Sam’s resentment at Kitty’s presence. There were the hard glances, the toadying responses. Before departing for London, Julian had told the men that Madame would lead the yard in his absence. Sam had seemed especially annoyed. Kitty had sensed this as well. Julian had told her to accept it. She was a female in a man’s world.
Could he have done more to support her without cutting her authority?
Julian accompanied Sam to the loft and labored into the late afternoon feeding the strakes which were to be shaped into the hull planks into the steambox, a long brick oven which wouldsoften the wood for shaping. He dripped with sweat, his hair pasted to his scalp, and when someone opened the door and the wind gusted over the line of men, they all swore the blighter to hell and back and carried on.
When he returned to the lodge and dismounted from his horse, he saw the stable door slide open and his coachman, Simon Wort, approach.
“I dropped Miss Dixley at Vicar Carleton’s,” Simon said. “And yer wife at a princely home in Huntingdonshire.”
“I assume your journey was eventful based on your late return?”
“Aye. Roads were shite north of London from the rain and ice.”
Kitty had gone to Georgiana. Why had he wondered as to his wife’s destination? Because he had worried she might disappear forever.
In his room, he found Demers had already called for a bath.
“I have also taken your dog for four walks, the last at half past six, and have seen to her numerous requests forplay.” Demers held up a cricket ball, his thin face serene in the absurd. “She accepts this as a suitable substitute for your hosiery and drawers.”
Demers flicked the ball under the bed and Ollie hurtled after it with a bark.
“Who’d have thought?” Julian said, straight-faced. “Good work, man.”
“Thank you, sir. It is a recent discovery. I can only hope I find more methods in which to keep her occupied.”
Julian scrubbed the sweat and grime from his tired flesh and ate dinner in his room with Ollie. He climbed into his bed alone, his arms folded under his head, and stared at the fire making shadows on the gold canopy.
Did Kitty think on him or was Georgiana assisting his wife in forgetting him? If ever there had been a side to take, his cousin never failed to position herself with Kitty.
Well past midnight, with the fire dead and the cold worming into him, he fell asleep. He dreamed of Kitty, the sweet and steely essence of her. And her body pressed to his, her curves beneath his palms, and her taste on his tongue. When he awakened on Christmas Eve with a cold sun glaring through the drapery, he dragged himself from bed, gathered Ollie for a walk, and found Anthony Philips on his doorstep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Julian resistedthe urge to slam the door in Anthony’s face. “What in hell are you doing here?”
Anthony squatted down to pet his dog. “Well, good morning, Ollie.” He peered up at Julian. “You look like hell.”
“It’s called work. I don’t expect you’ve tried it.” He marched out onto the frosty lawn with Anthony smirking attendance, and after Ollie had done her business, walked to the morning room where a maid poured him coffee. Grudgingly, he called for Anthony to be served as well.
His friend settled in his chair, stirring cream in his cup. “Louisa sends her regards.”
“Sod off.” Julian chose the first newspaper from the stack at his left and started reading.
“Really, St. Clair. You’ve broken her heart. The woman’s never been denied and for such a lengthy stretch. Three weeks, was it? Anyhow, that’s beside the fact. I’ve come to gloat.”
